Little Big Banalities

Ceramic shaped with a sad whispering in the distance.

Figures always destined to live stolen from their own nature.

The mortar will inhibit their own movements.

Some kind of children playing there in the skyline; falling, jumping, trying.

There are eyes that always are going to see the same.

Their shouts leave suffocated.

In their ears echoing an opaque gray.

/

You must run and to take the flower in your hands with gentle touch.

Shout; take the hammer, square, pencil or brush.

Rabid, and unleash the hit with strong; dropping over the wound.

Your dream.

The field can be found roaring. Disembowel it.

/

“ Whom ? ” — somebody reply. “ Me ? ”

“ You ? ” — it is heard in some place. “ Who is supposing here ? ”

/

Going from here to there…, many places, many matters, many contacts. No matter how you search; of that Thing, you are not going to know ever. Because although it flood the life; you are going to cover it with hatred and envy.

Where are the points of inflexion ? In what kind of chronology ?

/

We speak and discover, all of it numbered.

Garnishing when the matter requires such kind of effort.

And filled with a nothingness, present by error or chance.

We making a state fulfilling necessities; hackneyed romantics say otherwise.

Some kind of happiness falling over us.

Pleasant ambient and ceiling.

Nourishment in some kind of supposed or fictitious misfortune grown.

But no violent person I want for my children.

Blinded payments being of my preference.

With brass, tin, lithium or similar things,

and the gold does not let see anywhere at all.

Or only a simple innocent scrolls of meritorious signature stroke.

Easy cliches some persons could say.

Others about under the right possession of consciousness they are (sometimes granted in one or other kind of modern gallery of art).

We buying; we selling.

Sometimes in our luck having what to others has been taken.

But the correct shape ?

Which I chose.

We embrace a fan of possibilities.

Thought and designed for me and for you.

/

Only names here and there in our times seemingly free.

Mere ephemeral changes.

/

“ Hey … you ” — it is heard in a bazaar in some place.

“ Me ? ” — somebody reply.

“ Yes you, come to my parlour here, leave the fashion there. This thing; this is going to look good for you image. And this other for that machine that has moved you here ”.

And hundreds of opinions on important matter.

Me being amazed !

How can you be able to know what are you thinking ?

The facts ?

The act ?

What do you want ?

/

Our savage lost throughout history; … in a certain way only, I suppose.

Then glasses and roses and gears and wires, and that nothing fails.

Where are the points of inflexion ?

In what kind of chronology ?

by akv